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December 7, 2010
It was a hot summer day in what looked like a third world country. Where it was, I didn't know. Sitting out on the porch was a rocking chair, creaking on the dry, rotting wood. The roof had some sort of goldenrod yellow hay. The sun was hot, the dirt and every single form of life was dry-- but it seemed to have a tropical feel. Here I was, wearing a filthy t-shirt and shorts. I was smaller than usual. I was seven. My eyes were bawling, I was sad; until you said, "Come to my house."